Bury Me
by People Person I'm Not
Summary: A series of vignettes set in and around Cameron Kennedy's "This Hurricane."
1. Chapter 1

**What if I wanted to break? Laugh it all off in your face? What would you do?**

There were reasons he couldn't tell his secret, he knew there were, but that didn't mean he could deal with the secrets or their repercussions on his own. And the only person he could truly tell had been taken away, forced under the iron fist of the Soviet Union.

But keeping his secrets bottled up was driving Italy insane, slowly but surely. It was clear to himself, at least, though if Germany noticed he did not comment.

Until one day. One day when the weight of his secrets pushed him far past his breaking point, further than he had ever been before.

He snapped. Of course he did. He didn't go for the guns in the back of his drawer-he was too far gone for that, too out of his mind.

The constant fluctuation between tearing sobs and uproarious laughter terrified him. Italy knew why he was crying, but he could not understand why he was laughing. Perhaps he had simply finally gone insane. He didn't care. He couldn't care. This beautiful insanity was far better than the truths waiting for him when he-if he-recovered.

He was still laughing hysterically when Germany came home. The other nation, to his credit, just looked at Italy, picked him up bridal style, and carried him to their bed, where Germany held Italy close, almost desperately close, until Italy calmed down, until the glint of insanity faded out of his amber eyes and he was himself again.

But the threat was still there. That he would again break, again lose all his humanity, lose Italy.

* * *

**Fanfiction for a fanfiction. Dear lord, I'm such a nerd :P**

**Basically all of this belongs to Cameron Kennedy. I wish I could claim it, but nope, not mine. I'm going to assume that if you clicked on this you have already read This Hurricane, but if you haven't go do so. My logic is twofold: this, and the following, will make so much more sense, and that fic is _beautiful_. **


	2. Chapter 2

**What if I fell to the floor? Couldn't take this anymore? What would you do?**

_"Italy never, _ever_ predicted that Prussia would then sink to the floor, curl up in a ball, and begin _sobbing_."_

No. No. This...this couldn't be right. His little brother could not be dying. There had to be some mistake, didn't there? They had fought so hard and gone through so much to save Germany-he couldn't die now!

The blatant lies on the part of the doctors-his brother wasn't dying; they just wouldn't try to help him! They wouldn't help the man who had been the human Nazi Germany and had been responsible for so much death and pain!-infuriated him. Did they even know what Germany had done, what he had been through? He screamed at the top of his lungs, cursed the doctors, as if it would make any difference, It didn't, of course.

But then he saw Italy at the end of the hall. The nation, the man, with those big vulnerable eyes, who would do so much for his brother, who had come all this way to see the Germany he had known and loved-Prussia wasn't sure that version of Germany even existed any more.

It was seeing Italy that did him in.

There was so much hope on Italy's face, and it killed Prussia. He couldn't take it.

Dignity be damned. He sank to the floor with a sob that was less of a cry than a scream of raw pain.


	3. Chapter 3

**What if I wanted to fight? Beg for the rest of my life? What would you do?**

Was fighting back even really worth it? Every time he fought he put Italy more at risk. But he was a nation; he couldn't just take what was given him and accept it.

He decided. He fought. He had to.

Perhaps it wasn't the best idea. After all, his fighting only made the pain that much worse. But Italy. He had to do what he could for Italy. He had forced the other away from him, back to his own country and his brother and safety, and now he had to fight to make sure that his hurting Italy as much as he had had not been in vain. It couldn't have been in vain.

Pride. He was a proud nation. He knew that much. But if there was any hope, any chance-would begging make a difference, help Italy?

He didn't want to beg, of course. But then it just got to be too much.

He blinked blue eyes-they were so heavy; he was so tired; why couldn't he just sleep, sleep forever and ever and never hurt again. The damned angel-he was a devil, not an angel-loomed over him, pressing for the information he refused to give. Damn it damn it damn it.

"Please...bitte," he managed. "Don't. Stop. I can't…"

The grin on the monster's face would haunt him for years to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**You say you wanted more. What are you waiting for? I'm not running from you.**

They were going to be heroes. Of fucking course they were. Heroes so that Italy, with Germany, could make it to safety. That was worth dying for, as it was.

"Going out in a goddamn blaze of glory, huh, Liet?" Poland asked, eyes afire.

Lithuania, though much more sedate than his counterpart, nodded. They were doing this because damn straight Italy and Germany deserved their safety and happiness after all they had both been through. They would do their best to make that happen.

Another jeep appeared over the horizon, and Lithuania swallowed hard. Here went nothing. Beside him, Poland cackled. The Soviets could do their worst.

Because they weren't going to run. They were going to be big damn heroes.

* * *

**That last line is a Firefly reference. I couldn't resist. The actual scene goes something like this:**

***River is about to be burned at the stake***

***Mal and Zoe show up***

**Mal: Looks like we got here just in the nick of time. What's that make us?**

**Zoe: Big damn heroes, sir.**

**Mal: Ain't we just!**

**Yeah, couldn't resist.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Look in my eyes-you're killing me, killing me.**

The eyes. The eyes. Dear god, the eyes. He had been so sure he could do this. Even speaking to the man in front of him hadn't changed anything-had made him more set, more sure, to be honest.

But then he had made the mistake of looking Hitler in the eyes. And those eyes were so fucking human. They were just like Italy's eyes, but without their light, Without their life.

God. Italy had more nightmares about those eyes than anything else he had seen or done. He had needed to be done with them, so he had shot Hitler, but, of course, it wasn't that simple.

Those eyes haunted him.


	6. Chapter 6

**I tried to be someone else, but nothing seemed to change. I know now this is who I really am.**

Maybe, just maybe, if he ignored it, it would go away. It would cease to exist. No one had to know who didn't already. England and France had healed, though perhaps the scars remained, the one person who could _really_ tell his secret was locked away (he had never thought that he would be grateful for Prussia being gone, but here he was doing just that), and his own tears and nightmares were masked by Germany's screams.

At least in the day, Italy could put on the mask of the nation he had been before. Before the war. Before he had...no. He couldn't think about what he did. He couldn't. No.

He wasn't like that, was he? If Germany didn't know, Germany, who knew everything about Italy, who Italy thought knew him better than he knew himself, how could it be true?

But if he thought about it, Italy realized that he didn't regret it. He didn't know if that was a bad thing or not, but it meant that he was now, perhaps, a different person.

Italy learned that he could never run away from who he was. Because he may not have been a killer, but he also was no saint. He didn't regret killing-murdering-Hitler, and so he had to come to terms, as best as he could, with the nation he now was. He wasn't who he had been in the past, and that wasn't all a bad thing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Come, break me down, bury me, bury me. I am finished with you.**

They buried their ghosts, one by one. Germany buried at least a piece of Italy's for him in the soft soil under their roses, and in return Italy buried a piece of Germany's as their love became manifest, became physical. And then time passed, and perhaps they still had nightmares but perhaps those nightmares became less frequent and less real as memories faded with time.

Those ghosts they carried had broken them terribly. They were still healing from breaks that were beyond imagining.

But they were finished. It was done. Perhaps they weren't free, but they were finished. It was good enough.

* * *

**Last one! Sorry it's so short...to be honest, I couldn't drag it out. I said what I had to. (Oh, and Cam, I'm kind of curious about how this is influencing the sequel... :P)**


End file.
